


The Locked-Room Murder of Mr. Diavolo

by indiavolowetrust



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Blood, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, Gen, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Other, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiavolowetrust/pseuds/indiavolowetrust
Summary: You are called to attend an extensive holiday at the private residence of your old friend, along with many other strange guests. A choose-your-own-adventure (CYOA) novella.
Comments: 81
Kudos: 40





	1. Portrait of a Young Man: Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Guidelines:  
> 1\. The story will be updated in approx 1000 word segments on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with two to three choices at the bottom in [this format.]  
> 2\. Depending on the feedback -- comments, DMs, etc. -- I will write the next portion of the story based on the choice. You will have until 6 p.m. Central Daylight Time of the following days to make your choice: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. (This is also available and more accessible on my tumblr, indiavolowetrust).  
> 3\. If the MC dies, the player (you) will be allowed to rewind back to the previous choice. Perhaps there are even secret choices.

He was a fine young man, that Mr. Diavolo. Perhaps a little too eccentric, maybe a bit too jolly, and most definitely very, very loud -- but he was a good man. The kind of man that you would have taken to see your mother, if the opportunity had ever come to present himself. The kind of man you would have invited to dinner, a bottle of the good wine and crumbly, stinky cheeses on the table. The kind of man that you may have eventually come to befriend, given his rather irritating habit of forcing social graces onto you.

Most importantly, he was the man that your father had introduced to you at one of his many business dinners. Your father had presented him to you with a flourish, citing his very successful ventures overseas, and you had done your best to disregard the fiery mop of hair and golden eyes. His skin suggested he was from a southern part of the Orient, but the construction of his visage had indicated something else entirely. Strong jaw, sharp nose, and defined features. He was one of mixed blood, you had come to decide. One like you.

 _She’s just entered university,_ your father had said, beaming. Some of my uncles were rather against it, really, but I believed it was only fitting. _She’s a bright little one -- est-ce pas vrai, Georgine?_

_Yes, Papa._

Mr. Diavolo had only smiled warmly in a manner that was not at all like the other businessmen, his expression genuine, and you had found yourself smiling back. Blushing under the attention of this man, in spite of yourself. Mr. Diavolo had agreed in turn, clapping your father quite soundly on the back. In spite of the man’s strangeness, there was something undeniably, overwhelmingly intoxicating about him. Perhaps it was that exotic contrast of his golden pupils to his dark skin, so much like yours. Perhaps it was his locks, each strand blazing like hellfire. Perhaps it was that winning, impeccable grin, the chandeliers giving his teeth the appearance of sharpened points. Whichever the case may have been, you had found the intensity of your attraction to the man damning.

Then he had taken your hand in his, pressing it to his too-warm mouth, and you had understood.

And so here you are, dancing in the flickering ashes of your memories.

You stand in the middle of your late father’s study, clutching a yellowed, nearly crumbled slip of paper. It has been untouched, of course, since the day of your father’s death. Since the day of the fire that had swallowed up your future and ripped away your mother’s happiness. The costs of repairing the damage after the fire, much like the funeral, had seemed so little to you at the time -- but the medical costs have taken their toll.

It had been a miracle, they said, that you had survived such a traumatic event. Nothing short of a miracle. Truly, however, the fact of the matter had made your survival seem like anything but. The third degree burns have not been kind to your body, nor have they shown mercy on your finances. The amputation of your leg has left you walking with a cane for the rest of your life. You shouldn’t be able to feel pain anymore, they had said, given that the nerve endings in your burned flesh are no more. Given that the mangled portion of your leg no longer exists. They had cut it off mere hours after freeing you from the rubble.

Yet even now you feel the blaze.

You have wondered, time and time again, if there was anything you could have done to change that night. If there was anything you could have done to save your father. If you had not allowed that damned demon to seduce your father into the ways of the soul trade, would he still be alive? If you had occupied that monster’s time just a moment longer, could you have prevented the fire? If you taken a knife off the charcuterie and pierced his heart, would you have preserved your mother’s happiness?

The door creaks open behind you. You turn.

“Madame Thibodeaux would not be pleased to find you here,” Bette says, giving me a disapproving look. Despite being a maid, her position as our only maid seems to have given her more confidence in her position. Which is just as well. After the fire, Bette is the only one stayed. “She’ll be home any minute now.”

“Je ne pense pas qu’elle -- ”

“Tu sais que c’est un mensonge.”

You sigh after a moment, relenting. There is one more glance at the faded letter from your father, your fingers gripping the worn paper -- and then you are forcing yourself to place it back into his drawer. Closing it slowly, so as to avoid damaging the wood. Bette looks at you expectantly, and you follow her unspoken wishes.

The door closes quietly behind you.

It is nearly time for breakfast. You trail behind Bette as she marches down the hall, your cane tapping lightly against the wood. The halls have been unchanged for as long as you can remember, but you cannot help but regard the family portraits with wonder each time you pass them. With the wonderful invention of photography -- and perhaps even advances in moving pictures, one day -- you cannot even begin to imagine how uncomfortable it must have been for your ancestors to pose for hours on end. Each one is as fair as the other, the portraits swirling into a mixture of blond and fair locks. Aside from you and your mother, whom your father had met in the Orient, there is no one else in your ancestry who shares your same complexion. A mark of your late father’s more radical views. Had he lived, a woman of mixed-blood would have inherited his trading empire.

Bette pulls out the chair for you. You settle yourself into it after Bette takes your cane, setting it aside, and then she places a plate of garlicky, toasted rice and fried eggs before you. You begin to cut into the eggs, the yellow yolk spilling out onto the rice. There is the sound of dishes being washed. It is only after a moment that Bette places something before you, the bright scarlet catching your attention.

You take the envelope in your hands, turning it this way and that. “I don’t think I was expecting any letters.”

“Madame Adams came personally from the office to deliver it. I believe she said it was -- ah, what was it -- an issue of utmost importance?” Bette gestures vaguely with her hands, still preoccupied with washing the dishes. “Quelquechose comme ça, je pense.”

You stare at the blood-red envelope for a moment, unsure of what to do with it -- and then your curiosity gets the better of you. You tear open the wax seal, removing the letter from the envelope, and unfold it to begin reading the letter. Your eyes land on the strangely familiar, scrawling script, each pen stroke as fine and clear as the last. 

_My dearest Georgine,_ it reads. _You have hereby been invited to an extensive vacation at the private residence of …_

Your breath catches in your throat.

**[Read the letter.]**

**[Throw it away.]**


	2. Portrait of a Young Man: Part Two

**[Read the letter.]**

Despite the blood that has long turned into ice in your veins, your heart hammering in your chest, you decide to skim the letter. It is more of a brief note than anything -- a calling card, you would say -- but it contains more than enough to convey its message.

 _My dearest Georgine,_ it reads. _You have hereby been invited to an extensive holiday at the private residence of the Diavolo family to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the most wondrous soul trade. As one of our longtime associates, it is with the utmost generosity and good will that we extend to you this invitation. All housing fees and meals shall be provided. Activities include --_

“Is something wrong, Georgine?” asks Bette. You regard her over the letter to see a rather concerned expression on her face, her hand paused over a sudsy dish. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

You shake your head. “No, no, it’s not that,” you reassure her. “This letter -- it must have been sent to me by mistake.”

“Is that so? Mrs. Adams seemed insistent on --”

You stand rather abruptly, tucking the letter away into a breast pocket. Bette gives you a curious look, arching a brow, but perhaps it is your expression that prevents her from speaking further on the matter. Despite your efforts, you cannot mask the haste with which you stack your dishes and present them to Bette. With your weight resting on your cane, the door opens with some difficulty -- and then it is only moments before you disappear down the hallway.

Had the servant been anyone but Bette, you’re sure that wind of your strange reaction would have reached your mother almost immediately. Given that that is not the case, thankfully, you will have at least a few hours to decide exactly what you will do about the letter. And then you will have to decide exactly what you will do regarding the contents of the letter, as clearly there had been some expectation of a response.

 _But surely that cannot be right,_ you think to yourself. Those horrible words -- your old friend, Mr. Diavolo -- had been scrawled neatly at the bottom, despite the letter having obviously been written by a servant. It was the sight of that that had spurred a mixture of grief and rage to well within you, and then it was the underlying fear from that night that had crashed like a train into your body, forcing it into a state of panic. _Surely this is some mistake. Or perhaps he is mocking me, after all these years._

The door to your bedroom stands in front of you within a matter of minutes. You wrench it open, nearly releasing your cane in the process, and thrust yourself inside. It is just in time: you can hear the front door opening somewhere downstairs, as your mother has just returned from her weekly visit from the doctor. It would do her no good to see you like this. Her own grief and trauma has not been good to her either, over the years. Despite her being only forty-two years of age, her hair has already begun to gray at her temples from the stress. Lines of worry have made themselves known on her forehead. Despite your efforts to make her happy -- your decision to work under Mrs. Adams, your father’s former associate, and the giving up of your dreams in university to pay for her to go to the doctor -- you have found that she has done little in turn. Or perhaps it is that she has found no capacity to return the favor.

It has been ten years since your father’s death. Ten years since you were considered a prodigy and allowed to enter university at the almost impossibly young age of fourteen, your determination shining even greater than your brilliance. And so it has been ten years that your mother has slowly withered away, becoming a mere husk of her former self.

Then again, there is little room for judgment here. You are not as you once were, either.

You throw your cane beside your bed and throw yourself onto the sheets. Before you can stop yourself -- no, that is a lie -- you procure the letter from your pocket, reading its contents again. And again. And again. You repeat the process until your eyes strain, your fingers trembling from holding the paper at such an awkward angle, but at the very least you have no more doubts regarding the letter. It is a letter addressed to you and only you.

And despite what it proposes, which could very well be a trap or mockery of your own circumstances, you cannot help but feel tempted to follow what the letter directs. It reminds you of your former life, almost. Or it could, if you went. If you went, you could escape the struggling routine that has become your new life. If you attended this holiday, you could escape your depressing, blank-eyed mother for even just a few days, and you would not feel the presence of her permanent grief. If you left for the Diavolo estate, you would not be obliged to sit at a desk and work for the good-meaning but shrill Mrs. Adams, who forever compares you to your father, and you would not see the disappointment in your mother’s face that makes itself known whenever she speaks with you.

It is an insidious thought, of course. A horrible one that suggests you abandon your mother and your duties for your own pleasure. But you cannot help but be drawn to it.

And so you decide.

The holiday is only two days away. If you truly wish to take Mr. Diavolo up on his invitation, it is best that you begin to prepare now. How will you go about it?

**[I will pack my things and leave when night falls. Mother already has a delicate constitution as it is, and so I will not worry her further.]**

**[I will declare to my mother that my father’s old associate has invited me to a holiday at his private estate. Whether she likes it or not, I will be leaving to attend it.]**

**[I will lie to my mother that some business has called me out of town. An old associate requires my help.]**


	3. Portrait of a Young Man: Part Three

**[I will lie to my mother that some business has called me out of town. An old associate requires my help.]**

Perhaps it is not the best decision. Lying, of course, will require that you have some sort of explanation for her whence you return, but it is certainly the most convenient decision for now. Telling her the truth in its entirety would do nothing but damage her already frail state of mind. Simply leaving would accomplish that same task, albeit with the added stress of uncertainty. And so you decide that twisting the truth a bit will be the best course of action.

It does not take long for the hours to pass. You pack your things secretly into your suitcase, shove it underneath your bed, and come to dinner and lunch when called. Mother does not join you, as expected, and so you wait until you are sure that she is prepared to retire for bed. It would be much more convenient that way: a guaranteed lack of questioning, given her rather strict schedule for sleep. It is with this plan that you traverse the many halls of your manor, hop up the steps with your cane in hand, and knock on the door of her private parlor. It takes a moment for her to answer, and so you patiently wait outside.

And then the door opens, revealing just enough of her that you can discern her frowning, tired face in the candlelight.

“Il est très tard le soir,” she remarks. “Is there something you need?”

You try to look sheepish. “Oui, Maman,” you answer. “An old friend of -- no, an associate -- requested that I come sort out his documents while he is out of town. It will be some time before I return.”

Her eyes flicker. “I see.”

“Will you be alright with Bette? I have left a note with a bit of money in the note for her.”

“You have only one free hand with which to travel,” she says suddenly, catching you off guard. You blink in surprise; it has been years since your mother has mentioned your disability, much less her concern for it. She points her gaze quite steadily at the burned, wrapped stump that has become of your leg, its silhouette, shifting beneath your dress, and you do your best not to follow it. “It would be better if you brought Bette with you,” your mother continues. “If it is only for a while, I can manage well enough on my own.”

You think quickly. “Bette has a daughter now. Surely she would not be so committed to her work as to leave her behind.”

“Ah. Yes.”

And just like that, her perceptiveness -- or perhaps what she shows of it -- dissipates. Your conversation regresses into a series of hums and short phrases. The evening begins to truly settle in the house, Bette taking her leave for the night. The empty halls echo with the sounds of your tapping cane as you retire for the night, and it is only an hour until you finally blow out the candle on your nightstand, your room filling with darkness.

Your dreams are plagued with fire and brimstone.

* * *

The roar of the train is deafening. You had anticipated traveling through the train station to be a jarring experience -- the last time you had ever traveled by train was one when you were with your father -- but you had not expected it would be such an unpleasant experience. People cross paths this way and that, nearly crawling over one another like rats. More than once is your cane knocked out of your hands. A blond officer gives your scarred visage and cane a withering look as you pass through the station, not bothering to step from his post when a passerby kicks your cane from your hands.

Thankfully, you board the train soon enough. It is too late for breakfast by the time you board, leaving you quite famished, but you are only happy that you are finally able to leave the damned chaos of the station behind. You drag your suitcase behind you as you search for your cabin, your eyes drawing themselves to each engraved plate, and your cane nearly knocks into one or two other passengers as you pass.

An engraved plate finally reads the number that matches your ticket, and you sigh in relief. You open the door in one swift movement and pull yourself and your belongings inside.

To your surprise, a woman in a rather offensive crimson gown sits in the cabin. You’re quite sure this cabin was to be unoccupied, according to your ticket, but it seems that that is not the case. She looks up from the book in her hands and peers at you over her golden spectacles, seeming to be quite surprised herself.

“Oh,” she says.

Oh, indeed.

You decide to leave it well enough alone. You mutter a quick greeting, smile at her, and settle into your seat. It will be a long journey, as is. No need for rudeness now. She smiles in turn, flashing her rather long teeth at you, and you do your best not to stare at her mouth -- or her strange book, her offensive gown, and smoked spectacles, which seem to be so thick that you can barely discern her gaze. Still, you know she is regarding you. The woman only spares a quick glance towards your scarred visage and walking cane before she returns to her book, ignoring you out of politeness. You do the same.

An hour or two passes. A man with a cart passes by to serve lunch, and you choose a simple meal of roasted chicken with vegetables. The woman chooses to partake of only a glass of red wine.

“Have you some far off destination?” asks the woman out of the blue, regarding the heavy suitcase that you have tucked beneath your seat. An attempt at polite conversation. She takes a sip of her wine. “It is not so often that I witness something such as you traveling alone.”

You spear a bit of meat onto your fork. “Not really,” you answer after a moment. “I only intend to travel to the northern mountains for holiday.”

“Oh, is that so?” She smiles broadly once more. It is disconcerting. “How wonderful! It is no wonder that you seem so anxious, then. I thought it was I who had caused your discomfort.”

“Oh!” Your eyes widen at that, a sheepish expression coming onto your features. Perhaps this woman is not so strange after all. “I do apologize if it seemed that way, madame -- it has been many years since I’ve traveled alone. I intended no insult.”

“Good, good. If I have frightened you in some manner, I do apologize.” The crimson-clad woman drains her glass. “Perhaps -- if it is alright with you, of course -- I could see your palm? I’m a fortune teller, you see.”

“I don’t think I have the --”

“You worry too much, child,” she laughs, waving off your concern. “It’ll be free of charge, I assure you. I would never ask one such as you for payment.”

The woman extends her hand towards you, reaching across the small space of the cabin. It is only now that you realize that she has quite the strong scent: sweet rose water, a heady perfume, and the hint of something beneath. Something a bit sour. Still, it would do you no good to be rude.

Do you allow the crimson-clad woman to read your palm?

**[Of course! Rudeness would be out of place, and it is free of charge.]**

**[Something seems a bit off about her demeanor. I decline.]**


	4. Portrait of a Young Man: Part Four

**[Of course! Rudeness would be out of place, and it is free of charge.]**

It is a moment before you decide, your eyes flickering between her impenetrable gaze and her rather odd appearance -- and then you are reaching your own hand towards hers, hesitant. Perhaps a little too hesitant. The crimson-clad woman snaps up your hand with her own in the blink of an eye, catching you off guard, and you very nearly startle off your seat. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice. The woman flashes you a quick, toothy smile before bringing your palm towards her face, somehow inspecting the skin through the smoked glass. Given the thickness of the spectacles -- you cannot even catch the shape or color of her eyes as she bends over -- it is a wonder that she can see through them at all.

“Marvelous decision, my child!” she says in a sing-song tone. For the first time, you notice that she is wearing gloves. They match the ostentatious crimson of her gown. “Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous. I’ll make sure you won’t regret it.”

“Thank you, but is there any particular --”

A chilling sensation on the surface of your skin forces you to pause mid-sentence. It is as if an icicle has struck it. As if the skin there has suddenly felt the unpleasant sensation of frostbite. Your eyes flicker instinctively to what your body tells you is a wounded area, searching the woman’s hands for some hidden needle or whatnot -- but your search proves unfruitful. The hand that holds yours is gloved completely. The finger that traces it is not.

The woman hums. “Quite the bright little one, weren’t you?” she remarks, an icy finger trailing the inner flesh of your palm. You do your best not to shiver. “Astounding in all sorts of academic fields and everything you put -- oh! Perhaps that is not so, anymore. But that doesn’t matter much now, does it? Surely there are better ways for you to succeed in life.”

You clench your teeth at the sensation, which only seems to worsen by the moment. “Is there anything interesting in my near future, then? Anything I should be wary of?”

“Oh, come now, I’m a fortune teller, not a seer!” The woman laughs. It is brisk and shrill. “Reading palms only gives you a hint of the future, not the entirety of its tale. And wouldn’t it be so much less fun if you knew everything that was to happen?”

“No.”

“Ah, well, there’s nothing I can do about that negative attitude.” Her finger releases your flesh for a moment, granting it temporary relief, but in less than a moment it meets the surface of your palm again. It traces icy trails elsewhere, now following some line that must pass between your forefinger and thumb. “You’ve had a very great many things that have happened to you in life,” she continues. “Not all of them are good, but not all of them are bad, either. Suppose it’s just the way you look at it. Tell me, child, what was it you decided to travel for again? A family friend? Some business?”

“I’m currently on the way to --” she presses into the flesh, and you hiss, “-- the northern mountains for some business.”

“Business?” Her smoked spectacles slip down her nose. You catch the golden, slitted eyes beneath, nearly gasping at the sight. Her grip is tight on your hand. “Or is it revenge?”

You hold her gaze for a long moment. Her golden eyes -- they are wrong, wrong, wrong -- bore into yours. Her lips part once more to reveal an impressive set of needle-like teeth, each intermeshing with the other perfectly, and she smiles quite broadly at you. Her forked tongue slips out from between her teeth, tasting the air. Tasting you.

You should’ve known. You should’ve known all along. Beneath the lavender water, the smoked glass, the gloves -- this woman is a devil.

Her grip releases just slightly on your own hand, the muscles relaxing, and you take the opportunity to snatch your hand back. You cradle it in the other, attempting to massage feeling back into it. The crimson-clad devil before you only laughs in delight, apparently amused at the fear that has surely made itself apparent on your features. A moment, and the she-devil slips the glove back onto her hand. She reaches for the glass and taps the rim with her long claws, her grin only growing wider and wider.

“You look so lovely when you’re frightened, you know,” says the devil. “And that fear, that anger -- how wonderfully tempting you are. I’ve half a mind to devour you at this moment!”

You glare at her. “I’m not afraid.”

“Oh, of course you aren’t. They never are until the last moment.” The she-devil waves her hand in dismissal. “But you should know that it’s a sin to lie.”

“Those are lofty words, coming from you.”

The devil only hums in response. Another moment, and then she begins to stand, tucking away the spectacles of smoked glass into some breast pocket. Evidently there is little need to disguise herself at the moment. You watch as she makes her way towards the door of the cabin.

She turns to give you one last smile. “Consider it a lesson!” she sings. “A very important one, if you know what you’re getting into. The fire will consume you before the brimstone, my child. Remember that.”

And then she is gone. There is only the scent of sulfur in the air, the mask of lavender water and perfume quickly disappearing from the cramped space.

The same man who had served you lunch arrives not long after, prepared to take away your dishes. You look hastily in the direction of where the she-devil had left her wine glass after you hand him your own dishes, fully expecting to need to reach over the table. By the time you look, however, it is gone.

* * *

The rest of the trip passes rather uneventfully. It is a lengthy, boring journey by train that is seceded by an equally boring journey by automobile. It appears that Mr. Diavolo only hires the most tightlipped drivers.

You find yourself mulling over the she-devil during the course of the journey, your memories flickering to and fro. The smell of sulfur, just hidden by lavender water. The golden, slitted eyes, hidden skillfully by the smoked glass. The forked tongue. The needle-teeth. You were so sure that she had left her wine glass, that she had gripped your skin hard enough to bruise -- and yet there had been no trace of her. It was as if she had disappeared into thin air.

A feat that may very well be possible for a devil, for all you know. Perhaps you are not going mad. Perhaps you had not imagined her at all, and the she-devil had simply decided to play a nasty trick on you.

It is a very long journey in the automobile.

The driver rouses you after some time -- you are not exactly how long it has been, considering how night appears to have long fallen -- and you scramble out of the car as quickly as you can, nearly falling over your cane. The driver merely grunts when you ask him a question, hauling your suitcase from the back of the automobile. There is a rather harsh glance at your complexion. You fix him with a both determined and vexed stare when he finally places your bag by your feet, not bothering to take it up the stairs for you. He sighs.

“Be back in about six days,” the driver says gruffly. “Provided that the weather’s good and all, o’ course. You’re one of the first ones here, so don’t expect some grand greeting when you walk in.”

The door of the automobile slams shut with an air of finality before you can even ask anything else, and then the automobile goes tottering down the mountain road.

Before you is the private estate of Mr. Diavolo, its form looming before you like some great beast. Its tall spires are jagged teeth, its windows the eyes through which its occupants watch you from within. The eccentric, twisting shape can be attributed to no one else but a demon, for surely the architects of Hell must have odd tastes, and its stained glass shines with an almost unnaturally saturated hue. And then there is the great, crimson door before you, its knocker a polished bronze lion.

Unfortunately, there are several stairs before you. Given that the driver was nowhere near hospitable enough to carry them for you, you’ll have to manage them with both your cane and suitcase in hand. You begin to --

The great doors fly open. You nearly fall face first into the stone, but you turn just quickly enough to avoid smashing your chin completely against it. Still, your body meets the ground rather painfully.

“Look, another one’s here!” calls out a voice from the doorway. You squint to see the silhouette of a slender, rather short figure, its arm waving frantically. “Come quick, come quick!”

“It is nearly midnight, Asmodeus,” grumbles another. This one seems to originate from just out of sight, and it is only moments before I hear the sound of footsteps. “Surely this can wait until --”

“Absolutely not,” argues the first voice. “And look, this one’s a darling!”

“That darling is on the ground.”

“Oh. Oh my.”

It takes another second for your vision to clear. When it does you see two men: one a petite, nearly androgynous beauty, the other a regal and dark-haired. The petite one strides up to you with several quick bounds and sticks his hand out to you, offering you an amiable smile. You stare at him for a moment -- taking in the perfectly coiffed hair, the hint of foundation, the strange air of nobility about him -- and then you place your hand in his proffered one. He pulls you back to standing with ease.

“Are you alright?” asks the petite man. “You seem to have taken a nasty spill there.”

“I suppose I am now, Sir …” you trail off, not quite sure what to call him.

The petite man regards you with some confusion for a moment, waiting for you to finish, and then catches your meaning. “Oh, there’s no need to call me that,” says the man, breaking into that disarming smile once more. “I’m not a blueblood like that one over here. My friends call me Asmo.”

_ What a strange name,  _ you think. _ Who in their right mind would name their child that? _

“Oh,” you manage. “Well, thank you for --”

The dark-haired one finally stands within a respectable distance, stepping forward. He sighs. “Don’t you think it’s a little too early to be flirting?”

The petite man cocks a brow. “Flirting? Who said I was flirting?”

“I did.” The dark-haired man scowls at Asmo, his irritation having fully surfaced. A lack of sleep, perhaps, given the hour. He ignores you. “Now, could we please just get her through the door?”

“Oh, you’re only jealous that I was the one to --”

“No, I’m simply --”

“-- since you simply couldn’t be bothered to --”

You’ll be damned if you let these two fools bicker before you the entire night. Whatever regality or nobility that you had thought surrounded these two men has long gone, lost in the wind of their fickle argument.

“Georgine!” you say a bit too loudly, demanding the attention of the two before you. They regard you at the same time, Asmo’s hand poised in half of a gesture. “My name is Georgine,” you say with your most arresting tone, attempting to halt whatever argument may continue. “I appreciate the sentiment, but don’t you think it’s time we headed in?”

Asmo hand withers slightly. The dark-haired man simply stares. Your gaze flickers between the both of them. You realize the awkwardness of the situation.

Finally, the dark-haired man decides to clear his throat. “Right,” he says. He turns towards Asmo. “Since you’re the only gentleman around here, I don’t suppose you’d have any misgivings about helping her to her room?”

And so he does. It is only after a moment or so that Asmo realizes your lack of a limb, his eyes casting once towards where your leg should be, and fetches your cane for you. The dark-haired one looks at you -- not quite avoiding the missing appendage, yet not quite staring openly either -- and then walks back inside. Asmo takes your hand gladly in his and follows suit. You step past the threshold.

The nostalgia is almost overwhelming.

Aside from the occasional figure or statue, the appearance of the entrance hall may as well have been ripped from the fabric of your memories. It is the very image of decadence: a massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting its light upon the brocade walls and a pair of open staircases. The walls boast an impressive collection of baroque paintings, each made with a different technique, and a rather sizable rug -- imported from the Orient, perhaps -- lies before you. The weight of your childhood comes crashing down onto you all at once, so shocking is the image. Your father had brought you here a fair amount of times during the golden years of his business empire to discuss matters of the soul trade.

Your eyes trace the carved banister. Asmo talks at length on one topic or another, bantering with the dark-haired man, but the sound is a distant, far off clamor. The world is muddled with the buzz of your thoughts, your conscience smothered by your memories. Your father had held you by the hand at the base of the stairs there. Some official or businessman had offered you a boiled sweet in exchange for running off and playing somewhere else. You had nearly crashed into the gilded statue in that corner. There used to be a chip in that archway here. Each reminiscence nearly devours you.

Then you catch the image of a sharp, dark pair of shoes. Your heart stops.

As does Asmo. It takes him only a moment to glance at the figure at the top of the railing. He waves. The dark-haired one offers a simple greeting.

“Georgine!” Mr. Diavolo stands at the balcony, all golden eyes and hellfire locks. He grins, his sharp, white teeth gleaming even in the dim light. “How wonderful of you to come! How was the journey?”

**[Answer in kind. You are a guest here, after all. Despite your circumstances, you must follow social obligations.]**

**[Refuse to speak to him. How dare he speak to you in such a manner! This devil is no friend of yours.]**

**[Say something cutting in response. This demon deserves not your politeness.]**


	5. Portrait of a Young Man: Part Five

**[Answer in kind. You are a guest here, after all. Despite your circumstances, you must follow social obligations.]**

You hate him. You hate him. Good God, you hate this rapacious, scheming devil. You detest this devil with every fiber of your being, every bone in your body, everything you could ever pour your soul into. You hate this conniving beast of a devil with every last ounce of hatred you could ever muster in your body. Just the sight of him sets you on edge. Here you are, having paid dearly for what must have been a boost in his career. Your partially scarred visage, burned body, and want of a leg can attest to that much. What would have become of your academic ambitions and your father’s empire lies in burnt shambles around you. While you have no solid proof of his role in your father’s death, surely the great wealth and business that he has accrued is more than enough for you. Had it not been for your father’s generous donations -- and events, business dinners, strategic alliances -- you highly doubt that the demon before you would be enjoying the fortune that he possesses now.

And yet here he is, untouched by time or any semblance of guilt. If you were a halfwit, you would have sworn that this devil before you simply stepped out from the fabric of your memories.

Despite the intensity of your hatred for Mr. Diavolo -- and your nagging, incessant urge to scream profanity at him and hurl accusations -- you are a guest. Guests do not act in such a manner.

You grit your teeth. Hopefully it passes for a smile.

Mr. Diavolo begins to descend the stairway, his hand on the banister. “It’s been years, hasn’t it?” he remarks, looking you up and down with interest. “You’ve grown up to be quite a fine young lady, I see. How fares your mother?”

_Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard._

“She’s doing well,” you lie. “Much better than she was.”

“Wonderful! That’s good to hear.”

He reaches the bottom of the stairwell much quicker than you had hoped, nearing you with long, easy strides. You nearly fall over when he claps you on the back. Thankfully, you manage to retain your balance. Then there is that great, wide businessman’s grin again on his features, as if you two are truly old friends, and you feel the rage beginning to writhe in your core once more.

You want to burn that face of his to ashes.

The dark-haired man steps forward somewhere in your peripheral vision. You turn slightly to regard him. His gaze flickers towards you once, maybe twice on account of your missing limb, but once more he ignores you. 

“While I appreciate this reunion, I believe the hour is quite late.” He nods respectfully to Mr. Diavolo, as if to signal his leave. “And we’ve quite the number of guests who haven’t arrived yet. Surely such reunions and introductions can be set aside for tomorrow.”

Asmo huffs. “Just because you retire so early doesn’t mean that it applies to the rest of us. You’re no better than an old man!”

“My apologies, I wasn’t aware that simply needing sleep insinuated that --”

Mr. Diavolo claps his hands together once, interrupting the dark-haired one in the middle of what would certainly incite an argument. “Perhaps Lucifer is right,” he concedes. “Even the professor has yet to arrive, and I believe he was set to reach the estate by tonight. We’ll have it all sorted it out by tomorrow.”

And so it is Asmo that insists on leading you to your room, your suitcase in tow. The both of you pass even more vast swathes and stretches of corridors, each one appearing to be more expensively decorated and lavish than the last. When you finally reach what you assume to be your room, your remaining leg throbs from the strain. Asmo sets your suitcase to the side as he knocks on the door -- and then he swings it open with a flourish, revealing the four poster bed and gilded mirror within as he does so.

“Ta-da! One room for one young lady.” Asmo passes the threshold to place the suitcase beside your bed, and you follow him in. “I do hope it is to your liking.”

Again there is that dramatic flourish. and --

You realize that you’ve yet to thank the man for helping you up the stairs, much less for bringing your things to your room. Or for making conversation with you, given the dark-haired man’s -- Lucifer, you recall -- complete refusal to speak to you. You can only imagine why.

A sheepish expression graces your features. “I don’t think you need to mention that,” you say, tring to force down the embarrassment. It proves to be ineffective. “I believe I forgot to say thank you, by the way. For helping me up the stairs and whatnot.”

Asmo simply waves off your attempt at social grace. “There’s no need to thank me. What sort of gentleman would I be if I were to refuse extending aid to a lovely young lady such as yourself?”

Your embarrassment only intensifies. Perhaps it has been much too long since you have dabbled in society.

“Besides, we are friends here, are we not? I take it that you’ve no clue as to whom the others would be.” He leans casually against the frame of the door, overlooking a trinket on the rather massive wardrobe. A sidelong glance. “I know only a few of the others, but I’ve got the slightest inkling that your invitation was a bit, ah, unexpected. That you’ve no idea why you were brought here. Am I correct?”

 _He’s rather perceptive_ , you note.

“You are..”

There is a slight pause as Asmo turns the trinket this way and that, his attention preoccupied with what appears to be a carved bat. Or a winged animal of some sort. His visage is turned away from you for only a moment, breaking his hold on your gaze -- but he regards you once more soon enough.

“Then we’re allies!” he declares. “Or, ah, how would you say it -- we’re in the same boat. I was told that this was an opportunity to meet another of my trade here, but I highly doubt that such an opportunity would include that arrogant peacock of a politician. Or you, Miss Georgine. You don’t seem to be much of an actress, I’m afraid.”

His rather cheery demeanor belies only the slightest hint of the unspoken question. Of his sharp curiosity. You respond in kind.

* * *

You wander the halls of the manor after a quiet, private breakfast. Sleep had evaded you in the long hours of the night, despite your needful attempts, and so it was after a restless battle that you had finally given up on such a notion. If sleep did not consider itself your companion at the moment, you would not chase after it. A butler -- a rather reserved man by the name of Barbatos -- had allowed you to fix your own breakfast at your behest, leaving you alone in the cavernous kitchen. Dawn had broken sometime later, a soft, gray sort of sunlight streaming through the curtains, and you had made sure to draw the curtains before you left the room. A silent thank you to the butler.

You cannot help but be somewhat surprised at the emptiness of the corridors. Surely there should be someone else awake at such an ungodly hour of the morning.

Then again, you are thankful for the respite. The coming days will likely be filled with nothing but blunders in social grace, awkward conversation, and generally unpleasant experiences. While you had looked forward to the taste of your old life, the reality of the situation is a bit more than jarring.

It is not long before a great door looms before you, drawing your attention. Unlike the other doors or corridors that you have passed -- which could very well lead to only more doors and corridors -- this one seems to be of some significance. Two snarling bronze lions are positioned at its center, rings hanging from their teeth. The door itself is much more sizable than the others as well, rivaling even that of the great entrance hall, and you feel almost stifled by the sheer size of it. Its suffocating presence only further serves to indicate the importance of what must lie beyond this door.

That, and the fact that there is an engraved sign that reads LIBRARY beside the door. You decide to step inside.

,Much like the rest of the manor, the library bears an extravagant touch to nearly every aspect of the room. Not an inch of space lies fallow. Bookshelves tower far above you, crammed nearly to bursting with novels, manuals, and encyclopedias of all kinds. An imported rug of rich crimson sits at the center of the room, and upon the crimson rug sits a single desk composed of dark mahogany and brass. Muted sunlight streams from windows that reach the ceiling, and heavy, embroidered curtains line nearly every fingerbreadth of the glass. Aside from the rather impressive skylight above -- which somehow does little in the way of visibility -- there appears to be no other source of light in the room.

There is a sound somewhere out of sight. It is indiscernible, given its brevity -- but you are quite sure that you have not misheard. You squint and peer into the darkness in an attempt to identify its source, but the shadows are far too thick for you to do so. If you desire to find the source, you will have to step further into the library.

Do you venture into the darkness?

**[Of course! It could very well be another guest. The curtains here need to be drawn open, besides.]**

**[Oh, yes, let’s go frolicking in the shadows of that accursed devil’s library. Surely that’s not dangerous at all … No, you’d rather keep your head on your shoulders.]**

**[Perhaps you should try calling out into the darkness first. If it is truly a guest, they will answer.]**


	6. BAD END

**[Perhaps you should try calling out into the darkness first. If it is truly a guest, they will answer.]**

Despite your trepidation regarding the circumstances, you decide to call out into the darkness. A guest would surely answer if you did so, would they not? Of course they would. And so despite your growing trepidation, you speak into the shadows.

“Hello?” Your voice is small in the expansive library. “Is anyone there?”

As if responding to your question, another sound makes itself known in the blackness before you. You breathe a sigh of relief. It appears someone is here, after all! You call out once more, an echo accompanying your words, and once more there is that sound. Closer this time, as if whomever the guest may be intends greet you.

Something begins to take shape in the shadows. You offer whomever it may be an amiable smile, stepping forward with your cane. The silhouette continues to thump its way towards you.

“My name is Georgine,” you say, introducing yourself. “I just arrived yesterday, so I’m afraid I --”

You pause mid-sentence, staring at what stands before you. Eyes wide, heart beginning to hammer in your chest. Your intuition -- no, your common sense -- screams at you to run. To escape. To get away from this -- this thing that has stepped out from the shadows.

It is most certainly not a guest.

His body is burnt beyond recognition. So much so that you know you should be completely unable to identify him by sight alone. Hollow eyes, charred bones, and that horrible stench of burned flesh. You can mistake it for no other: the memory of being trapped in the fire and losing your leg has long been branded into your memory. Your leg threatens to collapse beneath you; your hands nearly release your cane, so violent is their shuddering. Tears begin to prick your eyes, your simple breakfast starts to make its way up from your belly, and your mouth has gone dry.

All this, and yet you cannot force yourself to move. He -- no, this is not him, it cannot possibly be him -- smiles at you with affection.

“GEORGINE,” he sings. “GEORGINE, GEORGINE, GEORGINE, MY DEAREST GIRL -- HOW BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE NOW! DO YOU REMEMBER ME, MY SWEET?”

You grit your teeth, in spite of yourself. Draw out some bravery from deep within you. You’ll be damned before you show fear.

You fix your gaze on the creature. “You aren’t real.”

The creature throws its head back and laughs. It is a shrill, deafening sound. “JUST AS STUBBORN, I SEE!” it bellows. The act forces its teeth to rip through its charred flesh. “OH, HOW I’VE MISSED YOU!”

There is the gnashing of teeth. The ripping of flesh that is very much your own. The sensation is there before your eyes can even perceive it, the creature having pounced upon you, and your cane is thrown somewhere else into the darkness. 

You scream. No one will hear you.

* * *

You have died. Try again?

**[Of course! It could very well be another guest. The curtains here need to be drawn open, besides.]**

**[Oh, yes, let’s go frolicking in the shadows of that accursed devil’s library. Surely that’s not dangerous at all … No, you’d rather keep your head on your shoulders.]**


	7. Portrait of a Young Man: Part Six

**[Oh, yes, let’s go frolicking in the shadows of that accursed devil’s library. Surely that’s not dangerous at all … No, you’d rather keep your head on your shoulders.]**

You shake your head after a moment, breaking eye contact with whatever must lie in the shadows beyond. Foolish. Foolish. You would be nothing but a fool to call out into the darkness, considering how there clearly isn’t anyone here but you. What on Earth were you thinking?

Yet you almost believe you see something shifting in the blackness before you. A strange, hunched form. It breathes and toils within itself as it begins to tear itself apart from the further reaches of the library, nearing you with heavy, plodding steps. Closing in with pained and labored gasps. Its moans begin to echo throughout the expansive chamber, the horrible sound reaching the skylights above. Icy tendrils of fear begin to wrap itself around your heart, your scarred visage, the remains of your limb. The panic begins to well within you, bringing with it the taste of ash and blood.

Then the stench reaches you, and you find yourself choking within its embrace.

Burnt, charred flesh.

You do not see the horrible creature that has begun to make its way towards you in the library. You surely know not what horrible thing intends to harm you, dragging itself through the bookcase, and yet -- and yet you do. And yet you are so acutely aware of its true identity that you cannot help but find yourself frozen in place, each logical reason to escape having made itself scarce. God, it is the fire. The fire. The fire, the fire, the fire, the fire --

A hand places itself on your shoulder.

You scream, tearing yourself away from whatever has come to stand behind you, and your cane swings wildly in the air. Unfortunately, the violent motion has also subjected you to a loss of balance. A sense of vertigo crashes into you as your body begins to near the floor. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Much to your surprise, a pair of hands catches your flailing body before it can further do so.

“Jesus, what is wrong with you?” a voice growls. “You could nearly caved in my head with that thing!”

You open your eyes to see a rather irate-looking, bespectacled blond. His suit appears to have been slightly disheveled -- surely a symptom of your near-success of batting his head off his shoulders -- and he frowns deeply at you, the displeasure a bit more than evident. You simply stare at him, dumbfounded. When on Earth did he get there? You certainly don’t remember hearing anyone enter the room behind you.

And then you remember the thing in the shadows.

Your eyes flicker back and forth between the man and the blackness of the library, searching endlessly for its shape. “There -- there was --” you stammer almost unintelligibly, “-- there was a --”

The man arches a brow. “There was a what?”

“There was something there!” you assert with a bit more force than you had intended. You quickly point a finger towards the darkness, nearly shifting yourself out of the blond man’s arms. He follows the gesture. “Just a few minutes ago, I saw --”

“If you’re about to tell me that you nearly fainted from a book, then you’ve got some imagination there.” The man’s tone is dismissive. Cutting. You follow his gaze -- only to see that the space where you had surely seen that monstrous entity is completely empty. Devoid of anything but stacked books, a messy bookcase, and fallen bookmark. The stench of charred flesh and ash has all but dissipated into the air. “I didn’t think Diavolo would invite someone so high-strung to this event,” he mutters. “And I expected this to be a more private meeting.”

Despite your fright, you feel a twinge of irritation. “I’m not high-strung.”

“So you simply fell over at the sight of nothing.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t placed your hand on my shoulder so unexpectedly,” you point out, “I wouldn’t have fallen over like that. I’ve no idea who you are!”

The blond man sighs, as if dealing with some churlish child, but he puts in the effort to pull you to your feet. A reluctant gentleman, it seems. It is only after a moment that he bows towards you as an introduction, strides towards your cane, and places it in your hand as a gesture of finality. You hold his gaze, unwilling to back down from the blond man’s rude demeanor.

“My friends call me Satan, but you may address me as Professor.” He adjusts his spectacles before they can fall off the bridge of his nose. “I’ve come for the conference.”

_ Conference?  _ your thoughts echo.  _ That can’t be. _

You stare at him with some confusion for a moment. “I’m sorry,  _ Satan _ , but I’m afraid you’re mistaken. You must have misread the invitation.”

“No, I’m quite sure.”

“This is supposed to be a short holiday.”

“Have you considered that you’re the one who is mistaken?” he queries, his tone once more taking on that cutting tone. “I would highly doubt that an imaginative one such as yourself would be correct in this matter..”

Your brow twitches at that. “Imaginative?”

“Pardon my rudeness, but you acted as if you had just seen some wailing phantom. And besides --” the irate professor takes out a letter from his pocket, “-- it says right here that the --”

You snatch it from his hands before the professor can shove it into your face, your gaze scanning the parchment before you can even unfold it completely. There is the expected address -- he truly is a professor, much to your annoyance -- and then there is the scrawling, blood-red script of the letter's body. A lengthy introduction, filled with nearly purple prose regarding his academic feats. A list of expected activities, all of which sound rather expected for a conference, as he insists. A date, an address, and the signature of that accursed, blighted devil.

It appears that the professor isn’t mistaken, after all. As far as you know, that is.

The letter is removed from your hands the moment your gaze meets the end of the page, and you glance upwards to see an even more displeased expression on his face. He stuffs it hastily back into his pocket, as if he expects you to take it from him once more. It is an only mildly expected gesture, given your rather aggressive manner -- but whatever regrets you may have had regarding the action are immediately dispelled by the withering look he shoots in your direction. Almost. You feel a slight twinge of guilt at being so aggressive towards a complete stranger.

“You weren’t lying.”

“Of course not!” huffs the professor. “What reason would I have to lie? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see if I can find any of the other blasted academics in this manor before I lose my head.”

Good God, is every guest here so insufferable?

The professor turns on his heel and begins to make his way towards the door. You think briefly to Asmo’s mention of a completely different reason for coming here. A meeting for artists and other bohemians, he had said. There is a strange amount of inconsistencies in the letters, it seems -- a fact that only serves to give you a strange feeling of dread. Malicious or not, it is a detail that does not quite settle with you.

The professor is almost to the door. Do you question him further?

**[Yes! Something’s not quite right here. Despite his insufferable nature, it may be good to warn him.]**

**[Of course not. As much as you appreciate avoiding a concussion, the professor here seems to be completely unwilling to converse further. Leave him be.]**


	8. Portrait of a Young Man: Part Seven

**[Yes! Something’s not quite right here. Despite his insufferable nature, it may be good to warn him.]**

Of course you should warn him! After all, he could be a very valuable ally in this blasted place. With this in mind, you pat your pockets of your gown quickly, searching for the letter, and procure the item from your pocket. You hold it outwards as you begin to make your way towards the irate professor, unfolding it with the hand that does not press itself against your cane.

“Satan -- I mean, professor -- if you’ll have a look at this, I’m sure you’ll change your mind,” you say, hurrying to his side. The professor pauses just before the door in interest, allowing you to meet him at his side. You proffer him the parchment. “There’s absolutely no mention of any conference in mine,” you explain. “This is supposed to be nothing but a holiday.”

The professor stares at you for only a moment, as if testing the genuine nature in the gesture, then takes the proffered parchment in his hands. Scans it once. Twice. Thrice, perhaps, judging just how many times his eyes draw themselves over the paper. Each repetition, however, seems to incite more and more displeasure, his disposition growing more irritable by the second. His blond locks all but bristle upwards like a vexed alley-cat.

The letter is thrown back in your face.

“I’ll -- I’ll have you know that I am no fool!” declares the professor, verdant eyes flashing with rage. “If this is some sort of juvenile prank, it isn’t very funny at all. The dinner is tonight, and so if you’ll excuse me -- once more and I’ll take your head off, I swear to God -- I shall take my leave.”

You watch, perplexed, as the professor only continues to storm out in a huff. The great doors to the library slam shut behind him, the force of the act nearly rattling the entirety of the chamber. The letter flutters uselessly in the air. You make an effort to catch it before it can truly reach the floor, turning it over in your hands.

The letter is completely blank.

* * *

The mirror is crooked, now that you look at it. Turned just a bit to one side. You set it right with one movement, stepping forward with your cane, and nearly flinch at the sight of your own reflection when you step back. The young woman in the mirror -- scarred visage, the shadow of your missing appendage, and that nearly perpetual frown -- regards you with that same sentiment. You sigh. No matter whatever paint you slather on your features, the quality of your clothes, or whichever expression you may plaster on visage, it seems that there lies no escape to that jarring portion of your image.

There is a knock at the door. Asmo. If you don’t wish to be late to the dinner, it’s time you left.

* * *

Dinner is good. Very good. Despite the strangeness of the circumstances, the complete inconsistencies regarding the invitations, and the overall unfriendliness of the guests, you find that you are able to enjoy yourself quite a bit during the actual dinner hour. There are nine courses in all: trays of exotic fruits and sliced cheeses, a charcuterie of all sorts with an assortment of herbed butter, poached fish with risotto, roasted lamb that still crackles when it reaches the table, spiced meats that you cannot even recognize, soup with good, crusty bread -- it is truly as if there is no end to the cuisine. Asmo flits from conversation to conversation with the other guests as you make some attempt at politeness, nodding here and saying yes at that. Laughing when expected, smiling when needed, and humming in agreement when prompted.

Despite the information that you know you should be gathering -- especially given the introduction of the guests you had yet to meet -- you cannot help but be more enamored by the food. You consciously limit yourself to proper helpings of each food, taking only when others partake of the dishes first. Drawing attention to yourself in such a greedy manner now would certainly do no good for you later.

You chew on a slice of sweet, imported dragon fruit as you take in the bits and pieces of the conversation, studying each of the guests.

Lucifer is a politician, you gather. One with a fair amount of power, judging by the topic of the conversation. While you can’t exactly glean the exact place or circumstances of his position, there is little mistake to be made from his haughty disposition and etched frown. He is of blue blood.

Mammon. the blue-eyed, fair-haired banker, laughs raucously at some low brow joke that he has made towards the other guests. He talks at length in regards to his especially wealthy clientele, citing the generosity of Mr. Diavolo, and makes an effort to show off the rather flashy pocket watch that he carries in a breast pocket. A man of new money, it seems.

Leviathan appears to be a reclusive writer. How Diavolo managed to convince him to drag himself all the way out here is a mystery. It is clearly obvious that he, like you, is incredibly uncomfortable in the social gathering. He makes little attempt to converse with others, focusing instead on his plate, the floor, or whatever it is that is so interesting about his shoes.

Satan, the professor, debates hotly with Lucifer over some topic or another. He is a man of incredible academic standing -- or so he says -- and is not so gullible as to listen to the opinions of riff-raff. This starts an entirely new argument with the politician.

As for Asmo -- well, you aren’t quite sure how you hadn’t recognized him before. While you can’t say you’re especially familiar with his works in the realm of acting, you do know that he is a very established man in his field. As is expected from a man who can change his masks so easily.

And then there are the twins. They bear so little resemblance to one another that you have difficulty believing that they are truly related. Much to their credit, however, the familiarity with which they interact with one another can only identify them as nothing else but the closest of siblings. The dark-haired one -- Belphegor, if you recall correctly -- seems to be currently attempting to stop Beelzebub from eating his own plate.

Strangely enough, it seems that no one has noticed the --

“Smile!” Asmo says, drawing you away from your thoughts. You realize that the actor has all but attached himself to you, a mixture of both concern and merriment on his visage. He has obviously had a substantial amount to drink. “It’ll be stuck like that forever if you keep that face up,” Asmo chides. “You should always take care of your skin, you know.”

You simply regard Asmo’s flushed face with some confusion. “I’m not entirely sure you understand how skin works.”

“Perhaps not,” he admits, “but it’ll still do you little good to just mope around in the corner. Come, come, I’ll introduce you to the other guests. Who haven’t you acquainted yourself with yet?”

All of them, if you are to be honest, but you’re not sure if you’ll have time to speak to every single guest here. And as much you wish to get away from this confounded place as soon as possible -- a regret that is only slowly building up at the back of your thoughts -- you’ll likely have to speak to at least one other guest so as to avoid another social blunder.

Do you take Asmo up on his offer? If so, whom do you choose?

**[Lucifer. Certainly getting in the good graces of the insufferable politician may benefit you in the long run.]**

**[Mammon. He may be a bit blustering -- and disagreeably loud -- but he certainly isn’t stupid, as is evident by his success in business.]**

**[Leviathan. He’s a recluse and looks just as uncomfortable as you. Maybe making a friend in him may be easier than the others.]**

**[Satan. Despite his apparent temper, he is quite the intelligent man. A boon in such a place.]**

**[Beelzebub and Belphegor. While they seem to enjoy keeping to themselves, you’re sure that they wouldn’t mind a bit of conversation. You can bribe Beelzebub with a piece of dragon fruit, besides.]**

**[Actually, you’d just like to talk to Asmo. He is the only one who has made an attempt at acquainting himself with you, after all.]**


	9. Portrait of a Young Man: Part Eight

**[Actually, you’d just like to talk to Asmo. He is the only one who has made an attempt at acquainting himself with you, after all.]**

Your gaze flickers briefly over the crowd as you mull over your choices. Namely, it lingers on the twins and the recluse. The twins seem harmless enough, preoccupied with the food and each other as it is. Should anything like that abomination in the library make itself known once more, you’re sure that the larger of the two – Beelzebub, was it? -- could prove himself to be handy. His brother could be equally as useful. The recluse, on the other hand, could make himself useful in another manner. While he appears to have shied away from most of the clamor of the gathering, it is easy to discern the sharpness with which he conducts his observations. He watches the other guests with wary eyes.

Silently, you wonder if Levi is just on edge as you are. If he has noticed anything off about the manor or the circumstances of the situation. You’ve certainly considered making your quiet leave from the manor once or twice – damn that abhorrent devil and whatever game he has set up for you here – but the complete lack of any access to the outside world makes any hope of escape possible. The coachman will be here in a few days to take you away from this blighted place, of course, but you’ll be on your own until then.

And so you’ll have to play this game until then, as well.

You catch Levi’s gaze from across the room. Hold it. Unfortunately, however, it takes him less than a moment to note the vicious scars and burns on your visage – and he flinches away in shock. While it is only an instinctive reaction, one you have been quite accustomed to, it still does much to offend you.

An inward sigh. Asmo is clearly the only choice here. No one else has even made an attempt to acquaint themselves with you.

“So how did you end up here?” you ask just a bit too quickly, facing Asmo’s flushed face with resolve. “I can’t imagine an actor of your caliber taking a break so suddenly. Must’ve been a compelling reason.”

He arches a manicured brow at you. “My, my, aren’t we the curious one?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean --”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says, waving off your apology. “I was involved in some rather funny business a while back, darling. An affair, the director’s wife, a divorce – well, you know how it goes.”

You don’t, actually, but you offer him a nod to encourage him.

He smiles at you. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s just say that it didn’t end very well.”

“I see.” You try to offer a sympathetic smile back, despite the unnerving nature of his own. For only the briefest of moments – if that – the flush seems to have completely disappeared from his visage. As if the very confession has sobered him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

There is a quiet moment between the both of you. In spite of the clamor of the dinner party around you, its guests becoming more and more merry as the night drags on, there is an undeniable tension that has formed between you and your newfound ally. A quiet that permeates even the scent of wine that hangs about him. Yet you cannot quite discern the emotion that flashes in his eyes, no matter how much you study the figuratively masked actor. Is it vexation? Irritation? Annoyance at such prying?

Or is it regret?

“How about you, darling?” he asks, turning the question onto you. “What exactly brought you here?”

* * *

Nearly an hour later – which is much too long, you think, for a dinner party – you stand in yet another corner of a room. This time, however, the room just so happens to be an extravagant parlor of the manor. The other guests gather around the fireplace that the butler has set alight, and you can hear yet another argument occurring between the irate professor and the politician. It appears that Satan and Lucifer truly do live up to their namesakes. It just so happens that the parlor has been outfitted with a bar as well, from which the butler continuously serves a number of drinks. And it just so happens that Mr. Diavolo has chosen to stand beside you at this time, talking at length on one topic or another regarding the details of the soul trade. The business that should have been yours.

Perhaps it is because of this that you have had just a bit too much to drink. Or perhaps just enough, considering your circumstances. You can only vaguely register the devil’s voice, the conversations of the others passing in and out of the haze. The room spins. You cannot help but enjoy this murky, wonderful blur. It has been a very long time since you’ve gotten this inebriated.

And so you enjoy the strange sight before you.

Satan, that irate bastard of an academic, nearly appears to be swallowed by green flames, parts of his flesh charred and burned to ash as he argues. Or perhaps that is his green suit. Lucifer seems to have a massive wound that bleeds profusely at his forehead. Levi’s heart is cloaked in darkness. Poisoned by it. An odd, sparkling fluid drips from Asmo’s mouth each and every time he speaks, the venom dripping from his tongue, and you giggle at the sight. The liquid is rather unbecoming. Beelzebub and his brother appear to be chained at the wrist somehow, with each of them bearing an equally strange feature. Beelzebub’s mouth splits into a massive, gaping maw with each word; Belphegor’s eyes are lined with unending shadow. And your hands --

“Will you be alright here, Georgine?” Mr. Diavolo’s voice cuts through the haze only marginally, but it’s enough to draw your attention. You regard him through unfocused eyes. “I think I’ll burn a cigar on my balcony before the night ends. The air here is good for the soul, I’ve heard.”

 _His voice is so, so wonderful for a devil,_ you think to yourself. _And he smells of fire and ash. Fire and ash. Fire and ash._

“Of course, Mr. Diavolo.” Your words slur together only slightly. Why can’t you have a voice just like his? You want to rip his tongue out and have it for yourself. “I’ll be ... right here.”

You stare at the nearly translucent form of the demon, squinting. Offer him a lazy salute. He only laughs in return, clapping you once on the shoulder before taking his leave.

The next period of time – you’re losing track of it, you’re aware – passes in a blur of wine and brandy. Barbatos says something about your rather quick succession of consumed drinks, advising that you limit them, but you brush it off. He’ll only be here for the rest of the night, besides. As he says, anyway. You don’t quite pay attention to the flow of conversation. A fire blazes in your belly, warmed as it is from the brandy. The scent of a smoldering fire pricks your nose. Barbatos whispers something into your ear – something about luck or fortune or whatnot – and walks out of sight.

And then there is the scream.

It is a piercing sound. A wailing of fright. The intensity of it sobers you almost immediately, forcing you back into what remains of your senses, and you look about the room and the guests. It appears they have heard it as well: the arguing pair have stopped, the twins have frozen in place, and the reclusive author seem to be stricken with panic. Even Asmo, masked as he is, seems to be ridden with nothing but fear.

A thick silence falls over the room.

Do you investigate?

**[Of course! If not out of curiosity, then out of concern for the other guests. You must know, even if that means doing it alone.]**

**[Propose another guest to come with you to investigate. It’ll be safer that way.]**

**[Like hell you’re doing that! Whatever may have caused such an incident may still lurk there.]**


	10. BAD END

**[Propose another guest to come with you to investigate. It’ll be safer that way.]**

What on Earth could have caused such a sound? It would only be logical to avoid the source of the frightful wailing. Every increment of your being begs you not to dive headfirst into something so foolish. Whatever may have caused incited the scream may still lurk there. And it may very well catch you as well, if you dare to venture towards it.

Yet you filled with overwhelming curiosity. Or perhaps curiosity isn’t quite accurate. Even in your inebriated state, there is an inexorable pull towards the sound. An undeniable influence that implores you to search the area. You want to know. You must know. There are far too many oddities that exist here – the blank letter, the strange mannerisms of the guests, the beast in the library – and so just a bit of searching would allay your questions. If you cannot currently escape this place, then you at least desire to know the full extent of your circumstances. A mere investigation cannot be considered wholly foolhardy.

You hope.

Still, it begs the question: who should you ask to join you? Certainly doing this by yourself would be nothing short of disastrous – especially if whatever had caused it has decided to remain there. Your eyes linger for a moment on the crowd of stunned guests before you, determining the effectiveness of each one.

The reclusive author and the irate professor would only be a burden, given their presumed lack of physical strength. As would the arrogant politican, whom you believe would only act on his own principles. The banker lacks the grace and ability to be silent in such an endeavor. And the twins – no, you should think of them as two separate entities. While you’re unsure if the one with shadows beneath his eyes would be willing to aid you, given his complete indifference towards you, the larger of the two could --

A hand is gently placed on your shoulder, snapping you out of your thoughts. You look to see smiling Asmo at your side. Evidently, the decision has been made for you.

“Shall we?” he says, proffering his hand. You take it, and he pulls you up with ease. Offers you your cane. “I would rather be torn asunder than allow a lady such as yourself to embark on something so dangerous.”

You stare at him for a moment. “Are you --”

“Sure?” he finishes for you, reading your thoughts. “Of course not. But we’re allies here, and allies help each other. Isn’t that right?”

You suppose it is.

There is only the barest of protests from the other guests – most of them coming from Mammon, who displays a surprising amount of concern for your welfare – but you and Asmo wave them off. If anything, it’s likely just some wild beast outside. The intensity of the scream could be simply due to its proximity to the outside of the parlor, despite the parlor standing quite the distance from the ground. You two will be back in a matter of moments to dispel the fright regarding the current circumstances, and the night can continue without incident.

Even Asmo looks like he doesn’t quite believe his own assurances. You know that you certainly don’t.

The halls are dark. Suffocating. Despite the massive size of the halls, the painted windows stretching far into the ceiling, you cannot help but feel as if the very walls of the manor have begun to close in on you. As if you are nothing but a rabbit, and the manor is wolf that desires to swallow you whole. Each step and knock of your cane against the expensive floors brings another wave of nausea. You cannot decide if it is your inebriated state or anxiety that has brought on such a state.

“That was good acting back there,” Asmo remarks, matching your steps beside you. “Have you ever thought about becoming involved in the theater?”

You give him a rather incredulous look. “No.”

“You needn’t be worried about your appearance, if it’s that. It’s about what you can bring to the stage, really. We bohemians do enjoy a bit of interest in our cast.”

“Shouldn’t we be a little more concerned about what we’re doing?” you say, attempting to fight off yet another wave of nausea. Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to drink. “I’m sure this conversation can wait.”

Asmo pouts. “But what’s the fun in that?”

“The fun is --”

Another sound draws your attention, although you can’t quite identify what it is. A crashing of a bookshelf, perhaps. The thunderous clap of some far off storm. A weighty piece of furniture being pushed off a balcony.

Or perhaps it is the crashing of a body against the ground.

You don’t need to tell Asmo to hurry. You force yourself to keep moving forward and in the direction of the sound, your cane striking harder with each step you take. It is not long before you stand before a door, its imposing shape visible in even the unending blackness. A study of some sort. You fumble forth to find a heavy brass door handle, brace yourself with all of your might, and pull.

It’s locked.

You try again, but to no avail. The room has been locked from the inside. There is another sound from within – a more muted tone, the shifting of some great object – and you pull as hard as you can on the handle once more, nearly knocking yourself back. It is of no use.

Asmo pushes you gently backwards and away from the door, allowing you to stand some distance from it. He pushes on the door only slightly, feeling for something within. Stops and takes a step back. A moment later – and to your surprise – he places a rather impressive against the door, the frame of it rattling with the force of the blow. Another moment, and you gawk as the door slowly opens. The lock has all been mangled in the process.

This actor, as luck would have it, seems to be full of surprises.

The interior is laced with shadow and moonlight. Asmo only flashes you a cheeky grin before stepping inside. You follow him and step forth into the darkness.

Much like the library, the study can only be described the height of extravagance. While you cannot discern the entirety of the interior, you can gather enough from the silhouettes of carved figurines and tasteful furniture. While the corridors that you and Asmo had traversed were quite dark, it appears that the shadows here have woven themselves into a nearly impenetrable shroud – and so it is moments before you can clearly peer into the blackness. Your vision blurs. Given that the only source of illumination is the moonlight that filters through the curtains, you have little to --

“Georgine.”

Asmo’s voice is nearly inaudible. Unobtrusive.

You pause and turn to regard Asmo, who has stopped only an increment in front of you. His slender shoulders tremble. He doesn’t look at you. Confusion crosses your thoughts at the actor’s sudden change in pace.

“We need to leave,” he whispers once more, shifting only slightly backwards. “Now.”

“But --”

Asmo quickly but quietly raises a finger, hushing you. Imploring you to silence yourself. Your eyes draw from his finger to the image before you, your vision slowly but surely returning.

It dawns on you that the scream was not produced by a human.

The charred flesh of the great beast smolders. A strange light emanates from within, as if it contains embers in its form. Its monstrous maw works noisily yet efficiently at what appears to be a body beneath it, and you can only watch in horror as its elongated teeth become all but submerged in nearly blackened crimson. Its multitudinous eyes – you presume they are eyes, anyhow – blaze from their scattered locations on its body. And yet despite the fear that begins to overtake you, the rational thoughts that scream at you to run from this place, you can only gaze upon this thing before you.

It’s him. Good God, it’s him. You can mistake him for no other.

There is the crackling of something beside you. A glance tells you that Asmo has accidentally stepped on an unseen notebook on the floor. Asmo’s eyes widen in fear. Another glance tells you that the beast has noticed your presence. It turns to you in a manner that is threatening and taunting all at once, its flesh writhing as it does so. Your blood runs cold.

It smiles at you.

The beast, bloodied and grinning, leaps towards you. You cannot turn away quickly enough. Your leg cannot move fast enough. A moment, and the beast is a mere increment away from your visage. You can feel the horrible smoke of its breath against your skin.

And then you cannot. Something crashes and splinters into the side of the beast’s body, sending it skidding away with an anguished howl. You turn to see Asmo’s heaving form. A nearly uncharacteristic determination burns in his gaze.

“Run!” he orders, moving to brandish another chair. He picks it up with ease, despite his slight frame. “I’ll hold it off, just go!”

You need no other encouragement. The seconds feel as if they are hours. You attempt to make your way to the exit as quickly as possible, your cane thudding against the floor. The alcohol threatens to expel itself from your mouth. The sound of your heartbeat is deafening. Something crashes into the wall, cracking it, and it is only due to some stroke of luck that it does not quite reach you. There is yet another splintering of a chair. The pained groan of a human. Something warm splatters against your back.

Against your better judgment, you look behind you.

His arm is gone. The other limb stretches before him, reaching for you. Gesturing. His leg has been mangled by some shadowy appendage. He’s still alive. In spite of the obvious pain that he must feel, the terror that must run through his body, he flashes you a quick smile. Blood drips from his mouth.

And then he is tossed aside, his body thrown elsewhere into the depths of the study. The beast still grins. You stumble back as the beast encroaches upon you, taking lumbering steps. Giving you the impression of a limp. It is mocking you.

“HOW LIKE YOU, GEORGINE, TO SACRIFICE SOMEONE ELSE,” it sings. You can smell its burnt flesh. “YOU HAVEN’T CHANGED ONE BIT, MY DEAR GIRL.”

Your mouth is dry. “You – you aren’t real. This isn’t real.”

“IS IT NOT?”

For every step you take backwards, the beast takes two more forward. In moments, you are able to discern the beast in its entirety in the moonlight, the stained glass window giving you the necessary illumination to do so. The beast’s body unfolds as it steps out from the study, its hunched form much larger than any logical reasoning would allow it to be. It reaches forward and clasps your hands in an almost gentle manner. Its multitudinous eyes gaze upon them with what you can only register to be a seething hatred.

“IT’S A SHAME YOUR HANDS AREN’T LIKE THE REST OF YOU,” it croons. All of its eyes regard you, and you feel the urge to vomit. “BUT NO MATTER. WE’LL FIX THAT.”

You don’t have enough time to scream.

* * *

You have died. Try again?

**[Of course! If not out of curiosity, then out of concern for the other guests. You must know, even if that means doing it alone.]**

**[Like hell you’re doing that! Whatever may have caused such an incident may still lurk there.]**


	11. Into the Fire: Part One

**[Like hell you’re doing that! Whatever may have caused such an incident may still lurk there.]**

As great as your curiosity is regarding the sound – as well as whatever or whomever may have caused it – you know better than to investigate something that could very well be dangerous. You are effectively trapped in this manor, which stands quite a distance away from civilization of any sort. There are enough inconsistencies in the circumstances to rouse your suspicions. You currently have no access to the outside world. Aside from Asmo, you’re not entirely sure you trust anyone else here. Certainly not that rapacious devil or his loyal servant.

Now that you think about it, you aren’t quite sure where he is.

“Shall we?” says Asmo, suddenly making his way to your side. His visage is wrought with curiosity, although you can just barely discern the concern beneath. Despite this, he winks at you. “I would rather be torn asunder than allow a lady such as yourself to embark on something so dangerous.”

You shake your head. “I’m not sure if that’s the best idea. What if it’s an intruder?”

The arrogant politician – Lucifer, as you recall – snorts from his place on the chaise, giving you a rather incredulous look. “You two act as if there’s some monster waiting out there,” he remarks. “And honestly, an intruder in a place like this? They would have to be stupid to even consider it. It’s probably some bobcat or mountain lion skulking around.”

“And if it isnt?” presses the irate professor. He adjusts his spectacles. “The lady may be correct in her observations. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard an animal sound like that.”

“That’s because you’ve never --”

“I’ve never what?” The professor’s gaze flashes with a verdant vexation. “Do go on, Lucifer. If it’s some point about not wishing to traipse about in the woods like the rest of you plebeians, I’m sure --”

“ -- now, you know that I meant exactly --”

“And what makes you believe --”

Despite the circumstances, Lucifer and Satan have somehow managed to be at each other’s throats once more. The conversation quickly devolves into a rather trivial argument about plebeians, hiking, and some other aspect of being a commoner. Beelzebub seems to be attempting to diffuse the situation. It is ineffective. The clamor manages to rouse Belphegor from his impromptu nap, inciting him to blink the sleep away and stare at the scene before him, and the banker merely looks on in interest. He shifts. You believe you see the impression of more than a few pieces of silverware in his pocket.

 _Insufferable,_ you think to yourself. _Each and every last guest here is completely insufferable._

“The offer still stands,” says Asmo. You look to see him folding his arms across his chest, the amusement playing at his features. Any trepidation that he may have had before has all but disappeared into thin air. “Anything that’s out there at the moment probably isn’t as frightening as this lot.”

You nod in agreement.

A thought strikes you. A nagging feeling. When you think about it, you’re not quite sure where Mr. Diavolo went either. Surely abandoning guests in a parlor alone is considered bad manners, even for a devil. Has he already retired for the night?

As if answering your unspoken question, there is the sound of a knock at the door. It raps on the wood once, twice, and then a third time, as if whoever stands on the other side wants to be sure that they are heard. Unfortunately, it isn’t quite loud enough to be noticed by the entirety of the room. A minute passes – you are staring at the door, Asmo is continuing to observe the chaos of the argument – and still no one answers it.

A sense of dread begins to build within you. A trepidation without cause or rational thought. The one that stands on the other side of the door is likely Mr. Diavolo or his servant, but you can’t help but feel a strange, inexplicable touch of fear. Against all logic, your intuition screams that you should absolutely and positively not open the door. Against your better judgment, some primitive thought process implores you to bar the door with all your might. Drag a cabinet or large table before it. Hook the interior door handles shut with a broom or other similarly-shaped object.

Then there is the knock again – three repetitions – but it is much, much louder this time.

A hush falls over the room once more. You can feel the mixture of both confusion and uneasiness that suddenly seems to have permeated the air. Whoever stands before the door waits for a moment, as if expecting one of the guests to finally open the door, and then they speak. He speaks.

The voice is completely unfamiliar.

“Lucy?” The voice seems to belong to that of an adolescent. He must be no older than fifteen or sixteen, you surmise. Yet there is an odd quality to the voice. A warbling. “Lucifer, could you open the door? It’s really cold out here. Do you think I could sit by the fire?”

No one dares to move. No one dares to speak. The strangeness of the voice -- as well as its unfamiliarity, given that the only other two people in this mansion should be Mr. Diavolo and his servant – has rooted us to our places. My heart threatens to burst from my chest. My mouth goes dry. For a long, long moment, we are entirely without movement. Without words.

It is Beelzebub who stands first. Belphegor has only barely begun to move from his place on the lounge by the time he reaches the door, his large hand closing around the door handle, and --

Lucifer’s voice cuts through the air like a knife. “Don’t open it.”

Beelzebub only offers him a quizzical look. “Why not? He could be someone who just arrived late.”

“It’s – he’s not one of us. He shouldn’t be here.”

“That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?” remarks Satan. “How would you feel if someone locked you out?”

Beelzebub begins to open the door handle once more, the locks clicking and giving way – but Lucifer manages to reach him with long, quick strides. Lucifer’s gloved hand presses against the door, preventing Beelzebub from doing so. For once, I cannot discern the hardness or pride in his gaze. The usual arrogance that lies within. Instead, there is only dread.

Lucifer holds Beelzebub’s gaze. “Please.”

“... Alright.”

The sound of shifting pillows and furniture catches my attention – and it is much, much too late. I watch with inexplicable horror as the banker crosses the room, grabs the other door handle, and moves to wrench it open, the frustration clearly written over his features.

“Let’s just get it over with,” he grumbles. “All of you are actin’ like there’s some monster out here!”

The door swings open. His expression of frustration quickly regresses into one of disbelief.

Great, crimson eyes. A sweeping trail and mane of black feathers, each one bearing an intricate pattern, and a stark white beak that clacks once. A decorative plume of feathers sprouts from the top of its head. Its great eyes blink as it cocks its head, as if it had expected someone else to answer the door, and its pupils dilate in what you can only assume to be interest. Mammon stares wide-eyed at the monster that is crouched before him, mouth agape. The beast stares back, its claws scratching only slightly against the wooden floor. Its expression simply one of curiosity. And then its gaze lands on Lucifer, and its visage contorts into pure, seething hatred.

Beelzebub closes the door.

“What --” Mammon stammers, to his knees, “-- what was --”

“Don’t know. ” Beelzebub pulls Mammon back up to his feet with an astounding strength, nearly tossing him into the air. “I don’t think we should stick around here, though.”

There is a crack at the door. The beast has evidently attempted to force its way in. Thankfully, Beelzebub has had the sense to lock it immediately upon witnessing the monster. The rather imposing man kicks a cabinet in front of the door before the monster can try once more, and its attempt it thwarted yet again. You are glad that Mr. Diavolo has installed such expensive, sturdy doors – although you can’t quite say for certain that he had done so with this in mind. A quick glance to your right tells you that the other guests are escaping through the backdoor of the parlor, which appears to lead into another labrynthine hall of the manor.

Asmo pauses before the corridor and gives you an expectant look, extending his hand towards you. Beelzebub appears to be piling more obstacles in front of the door. Belphegor, while obviously intending to help, is having a bit of difficulty with lifting something.

**[Escape with Asmo.]**

**[Help Beelzebub and Belphegor.]**


	12. Into the Fire: Part Two

**[Help Beelzebub and Belphegor.]**

Every instinct screams at you to run. To simply take Asmo’s hand and disappear into the darkness of the corridor beyond. It would be safer that way, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t be trapped with that monster and two men you barely know. You wouldn’t be eviscerated or disemboweled or whatever else it fancies it would like to inflict upon you. You don’t know if you can willingly force yourself further into such dire circumstances. Beelzebub looks plenty strong, besides. He probably doesn’t even need your help.

But then there is that terrible cracking at the door. The lock has just begun to give way. The door encroaches just an increment further into the parlor. A fire poker clatters clamorously onto the ground. Belphegor’s fingers tremble. There is another effort on the monster’s part: this time the dark mahogany of the door splinters, the great veins traversing amongst its surface. The monster clacks its beak – God, you can hear it clearly even through the wood – and tries once more.

The great doors burst open – or perhaps they simply break away. You can’t seem to register the events before you quickly enough. Neither can Belphegor. A piece of flying wood strikes him in the middle of his forehead, and his body immediately crumples on the spot, folding in on itself. Fresh blood begins to well and trail down his visage, painting it crimson. Against his better judgment – if that is an applicable term to use at the moment, given the circumstances – Beelzebub crosses the room and rushes his brother’s side, the fear now quite apparent in his own expression. Much to his despair, however, it appears that Belphegor is nowhere near consciousness. The force of the impact has knocked him out cold.

The bird-like beast lumbers slowly into the room, his pair of great crimson eyes sweeping the room. It is only now that you realize that there are even more oddities on its form: what you had thought were intricate patterns on its feathers are actually hundreds of eyes, all of them swiveling to take in its surroundings, and its beak is lined with multiple rows of sharp, needle-like teeth. Its hooked beak seems to be made precisely for the tearing of flesh. Its clawed feet click ominously against the floor as it passes the threshold. The bird-like beast is so massive that it must dip its head in order to enter the parlor.

“Lucy!” it calls, warbling. Even now its voice is still that of an adolescent, however distorted it may be. “Lucy, where are you? Mother said you should have let me out sooner. It was so cold in there! Why didn’t you let me out sooner? WHY DIDN’T YOU LET ME OUT? WHY DIDN’T YOU LET ME OUT? I WAS SCREAMING, LUCY! I PROMISED THAT I WOULD PLAY WITH YOU! I BEGGED YOU! WHY DID YOU LOCK ME IN THERE?”

You can only watch as thousands of its eyes lock onto the fallen Belphegor and the frozen Beelzebub, who only stares wordlessly at the creature. It screeches in what appears to be a conglomeration of despair and rage, its eyes now turning and circling endlessly. Maddeningly. It begins to curl its body before the twins, poised to strike. Its stark white beak clacks in anticipation.

If you intend to help, you have a very, very limited window to do so.

A memory crosses your thoughts, fleeting yet poignant. Your palm was pressed to the burn on your face, tears streaming down and stinging your cheeks, and smoke was so thick that you could barely see what the shadows before you. The wooden structure was collapsing around your hapless form, stopping you at nearly every turn. You had long torn your dress to shreds. And the screaming. God, the screaming. You had tried not to think of the others that were unable to escape the initial blaze, but the sound had pierced your ears and disoriented you. Burned itself into your memory. And so you had fumbled blindly through the ash and smoke, avoiding the spots of heat where you could.

His voice had called out to you, then. Implored you to drag him out from under the beam that had him pinned to the floor. But you could only stare at him in trepidation, frightened as you were by the blaze. The flames had licked at his skin and clothing as he stared at you, pleading, but you could not force yourself to lift it from him. Your hands would be burnt, wouldn’t they? Your beautiful, perfect hands. You could not possibly be strong enough to lift it off him, so why try? Why bother? And so you had simply ran away in fear, despite the voice that called out to you again and again. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.

Perhaps that is why you had been pinned by debris some short time later. A recompense for your actions.

Are you still the same person you were back then?

The fire poker is closer to you than it is the twins. If you can just get to it quickly enough, then --

You shake your head. Now isn’t the time to think.

Asmo reaches towards you somewhere in your peripheral vision, perhaps attempting to stop you from doing something so brash and stupid. You won’t let him. You all but fling yourself towards both the monster and the fire poker, nearly falling over in the process. The thick iron sits heavily in your hand. The monster rears back as it continues to scream unintelligibly, its movements now wholly erratic, and then its head dips. Its beak falls open, revealing the rows of teeth. The bird-like monster rushes forth.

You slam the fire poker straight through its skull. A strange black ichor runs down the length of the makeshift weapon, staining your hands, and your chest heaves in effort. The bird-like beast stumbles back, and you take the opportunity to wrench and twist the poker deeper. It collapses backwards.

It writhes. You drag yourself onto its feathers and stab it again. And again. And again. Again, again, again. The black ichor splatters against your cheek and clothing as you mutilate the creature, rendering its flesh and bone into something incomprehensible. Its feathers press themselves against your skin as it twitches, its great crimson eyes rolling in its sockets. You are surprised to see that the ichor that spills out of them is still pitch-black. There are words spilling out of your mouth – even you do not know what they are or what they mean – but you cannot stop them. They become a mantra.

When the creature’s beak finally stops clacking, its eyes still, you know that it has perished.

There is hand at your shoulder. Asmo. He looks at you with an inscrutable expression, his gaze drawing over your ruined clothing. It lingers over your ichor-splattered cheek. Your cane is in his hands.

“It’s alright,” he says. “You can stop now. It’s not going to get back up again.”

There is another roar some distance away. Beelzebub has already begun to drag his brother towards the exit. With a surprising amount of ease for his slight frame, Asmo manages to gather you in his arms and whisk you away.

* * *

The storage closet, however spacious it may be, is still quite cramped for a party of eight. Levi sits huddled in a corner. Satan paces back and forth wordlessly. Mammon simply stands shell-shocked in front of a shelving unit, counting the items in front of over and over again under his breath. A force of habit, it would seem. Beelzebub cradles his brother, rubbing his shoulder in an attempt to wake him up. A bandage has been wrapped around his head. Asmo wrings his hands together, his gaze flickering to the door on occasion. Lucifer rests upon an old chair, his head in his hands.

As it would turn out, there’s no consistent explanation as to what had lured each of them there. Asmo had been promised an acting contract afterwards, Mammon had thought it to be some small gathering of his associates, and Levi had been informed it was a mere celebration for the publication of his novels. Satan – well, you already knew his circumstances. Only Beelzebub, Belphegor, and Lucifer have yet to speak. While you can certainly understand the twins’ silence, you desire to know the reasons for Lucifer’s.

“We were only children.” The words are barely inaudible, but you’re close enough to discern the meaning. He rubs his temples over and over again, his expression hidden away from you in the shadow. “I ... I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think he would ... I just wanted to ...”

Do you pry?

**[Yes. The monster seemed to be connected to him, somehow. Maybe if you find out more about it, it’ll be a clue to escaping this place.]**

**[No. He’s been through enough already. Respect his decision to remain silent and distance yourself from him.]**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comment which choice you would like the main character to take!


End file.
